PHYSICIAN HEAL THYSELF II Critical Care
by Akylae
Summary: COMPLETE House’s brain is shutting down for no reason. Are the ducklings willing and able to help? Can Cuddy and Wilson make the tough calls in his name? Stand-alone part 2 of a trilogy. Post season 3, AU. Huddy & Chameron.
1. GreenHouse

Standard disclaimers apply, made for practice, not profit.  
Please review, constructive criticism welcome.

**CRITICAL CARE  
**

**Greenhouse**

Cuddy is startled to see House waiting at the hospital entrance. At seven in the morning on Monday. With a tried posture and pale, sunken face.

"House?" She calls out in concern, taking in his haggard appearance.

He looks up so slowly it appears a lame Hollywood effect, dark circles under blood shot eyes. "Knock-out pills." He holds out a hand, his usually demanding voice comes out strained. "Off counter stuff sucks."

Cuddy strides over, studious eyes connecting with glazed ones. "Booze doesn't qualify as…" Her words trickle off as House produces an opaque pill bottle from his blazer, holding it label-first in her face.

"Let's get you checked up." She takes him by the forearm and guides him in.

House makes no move to resist until his slow brain figures they're heading for the clinic and not the pharmacy. "Just gimme the damn pills." He groans.

"No." She stares him down. "No more blind prescriptions."

"I haven't slept in days!" House shouts, startling the scarce early morning staff off janitors and nurses.

"The sooner I finish the sooner you get to crash." Cuddy is adamant.

"Fine." He mutters, following her to exam one. Seated at the exam table he watches her retrieve a tourniquet, syringe and test tube. "It's not physical." He insists, rubbing one eye with the heel of his other hand, but doesn't stop her from rolling his sleeve up.

"You're warm." She notes, reaching for his forehead.

House pulls away. "Under one hundred and dropping." He groans. "I was also lethargic and without appetite. It's the flu shot you – OUCH!" He yelps at the needle prick.

"Vaccination is mandatory for _all_ medical personnel." Cuddy shoots him a pointed look. "Pump."

Dark red flows into a test tube in time with the clenching of Greg's lanky fist. "I didn't get a bug in decades and than you give me one for prevention." He returns glare for glare.

"Insomnia could be hormonal." She seals the vial. "I'll test the thyroid and pituitary functions."

"Whatever." He mumbles. "Just get me something. Hell, club me over the head if you have to."

A faint grin steals it s way to her lips as she writes on a prescription pad. "Here." She offers a slip.

Snatching it without thanks, House lands off the exam table and hobbles away. Half way out, he looks over the shoulder. "When the results come back - don't wake me."

"Go." She urges him out. "Sleep."

**…**

The door of Wilson's office opens with a rumble of laughter as a young couple exits.

"We'll John, I hope never to see you again." The oncologist shakes his patient's hand.

"Same here doctor." Replies the other man through an exchange of smiles, before ushering his wife down the hall.

Watching the two amble away, Wilson feels his stomach rumble and churn. One glance at the wrist watch later, he is on the door of Greg's office, surprised by the totally closed blinds. With a rap on the glass, he steps in uninvited.

The white board stands out of place next to the diagnostician's desk, its badly wiped surface scrawled with three un-medical terms:

_Tired  
__Can't stop  
No focus_

Glancing around the office, Wilson finds House awkwardly slumped in the corner recliner, chin on chest and eyes half-open.

"House!?" Wilson jumps to his side, taking his head for a better look. "House, look at me!"

Blue eyes drift slowly to the source of the sound, pupils wide. Wilson's own snap back and forth over the room, falling on an open bottle of tranquilizers one quarter empty. Turning the label, he reads the present date, eyes wide with shock.

"Shit!" He drops the bottle, pills rattling against a rushed beat of footsteps on carpet.

"Call code!" He hollers to the hall and races back just as fast, fingers on House's jugular.

"One. … Two. … Damn it!"

Nervous, Wilson licks his lips. "Talk to me, House, tell me where you are."

House lifts his head slowly, looks around. "Office."

"What office?" Wilson presses.

"Tired…" Greg mumbles, head drooping again.

"House, look up!"

The man obeys begrudgingly.

"Stay with me, you have to stay with me."

Office doors slam open to a three man team of medics pushing a gurney.

Wilson steps aside as they move House form the recliner. "Point one epi shot before his heart stops." He jogs behind them to the elevator.

Sleeve rolled up, an injection pen is emptied into Greg's shoulder, opposite arm brushing the thing off with glacial moves. Pressure gauge is wrapped around the forearm, portable pulse-ox added for good measure.

"What happened?" A medic asks.

"Sedative overdose." Wilson heaves.

On three, a dazed House slams into the hard mattress of the ER table, pairs of gloved hands moving over him, reducing shirt to shreds. Pig Latin rattles off with urgency as tubes wide and narrow are brought on scene.

"Nho." House groans against the one in his mouth, head rolled side to side to escape the offending object.

Strong hands grab him by the temples and hold the head still for the procedure but House starts choking, his slow arms vainly flailing to fight off the attack. The tube is pulled while orderlies pin his wrists to the table.

"Swallow." Commands a graying blackhead in her alto, guiding the tube back in through a mouth held open by force.

House jerks with a retching spasm, rancid ooze spewed out.

"Recovery Pose!" She commands, nurses helping to unbuckle one hand and roll him on the side. "Suction."

Gauze wipes the dribble from his face as he coughs the straying bits out, a different tube slurping up the mess.

"Get him active charcoal." The woman snaps her gloves off in frustration.

From outside ER, Cuddy and Wilson stare through half-open blinds.

Wilson sighs. "A few months ago I tried slipping antidepressants into his coffee." He admits to Cuddy's shock. "They worked." He adds regretfully. "Do you think he…?"

Cuddy shakes her head, to deny it and to fight the thought away. "I don't believe it." She crosses her arms defiantly. "Not now."

"Than why?"

"Hormone panel showed his melatonin is negligible. The pineal gland isn't working. Sleep deprivation causes problems with higher thought processes, he could have just lost count of the pills."

Wilson's brow rises in an expression of interest. "That would explain it."

"Explain what?" She frowns at him.

"This." Wilson gestures to ER. "He's resisting treatment with enough sedatives in him to kill an elephant."

"We should do a head scan, look for structural abnormalities."

**…**

Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose, the faint light of computer screens illuminating his face as images stream in from the MRI. His eyes scan each row of dots as it appears, taking in the curving lines and bloby surfaces that are Greg's brain, slices coming in from the crown down.

"Found anything?" Cuddy's voice sounds from over his shoulder.

"Nothing so far." Wilson sighs an answer; eyes fixed on the screen but no longer focused. "No masses, lesions, gumma…"

"Shutting down for no reason."

"Looks…" The oncologist freezes, attention glued to the brain scan. "Wait a second." He scrolls through the last dozen pictures, eyes growing wide with shock as he notes the shrinking space between brain and skull. "Good God... the frontal cortex!"

Cuddy shakes her head, baffled. "This kind of swelling, he should be having a massive headache."

Beeping of the pulse-ox interrupts her, vitals display showing an increase in pulse and blood pressure.

"He is." Wilson pulls from the desk, racing to the scanner room. "Vicodin was masking it." He slams a large button.

House is slid out, strapped immobile and grimacing in pain.

"He needs a morphine shot or his brain 'll herniate."

Cuddy wheels over a gurney and grabs the stretcher under a writhing, moaning House. "COX inhibitor for inflammation and paracetamol for the fever."

"Are you _trying_ to shoot his liver?" Wilson helps her move House, vainly rolling his head under the binds as if it could ease the growing pressure, fingers clutching at the hospital gown, groaning ever louder.

She glares icicles his way. "Got a better idea?"

"Aspirin for swelling, fever _and_ clot prevention, which, given his history and the fact he'll be lying around a lot now, is not insignificant." He rolls the gurney out. "One mildly toxic drug beats three."

Tense and quivering, House whimpers, breathing coming in hiccups.

"What's the differential for brain swelling?" Cuddy calls the elevator.

"Scan showed no trauma." Wilson pushes House in and punches third floor. "Could be infection, overdose, poisoning…" He trails off as doors shut.

"James?" She sounds weary.

"Paraneoplastic syndrome." He mutters.

Cuddy's mouth opens slightly. "Cancer."

He nods.

Blue eyes snap open, gasping against spiking pain.

She passes a hand through the black mane. "All right, we need to do complete blood works-"

He shakes his head. "Treatment before test."

"What?" She's befuddled.

"His practice." Wilson points at House as the doors ping open. "Give him everything but chemo." He speaks as they roll their friend to ICU. "If he doesn't get better we'll know its cancer. Morphine." He orders Brenda. "Now."

Undoing the binds, Lisa and James hoist House to a free bed, nurses quick to hook him up on IV and monitors, instantly screaming in alarm. Second later, a shot of opium floods Greg's system, vitals dropping.

"BP normal, pulse steady." Wilson reads the display. "He's in the clear."

"For now." Cuddy reminds. "Broad spectrum antibiotics, interferons, standard heavy metal chelation." She rattles off at a young blonde. "Have complete blood works done: tox screen, drug panel and cancer markers. We still need to know which of those worked, or _your_ treatment will shoot his liver." Her looks is stern.

"I'll schedule a lymph node biopsy and torso X-ray." He adds. "Faster results."

She nods.

Relaxed, House opens his eyes, a lost expression on his face.

"Greg?" She calls out loud and clear.

Dark brows knit confused. "Stacy?"

The lines of Cuddy's face slope. "No, House." Her voice softens. "It's me, Lisa Cuddy."

"Cuddy…" The word comes out stretched, an unfamiliar sound.

Lisa opens a shelf of vacutaniers and sterile needles, hiding a film of tears. A shaky, calming breath later she blinks a few times and faces the nurse. "Hold his arm still."

Rubber band rolled up one arm, a needle breaks into vein, House jerking his palm up against the hold in an attempt to shield the sensitive crook of elbow.

Cuddy notes his step down on the awareness scale while filling three vials of blood. "Get House to radiology and page Doctor Wilson."

"Yes, ma'am."

**…**

Wilson raps the dean's office doors.

"Come in." Cuddy calls.

Entering into the stripes of orange light and gray shadow, Wilson raises his brows in a ' Which is it?' question.

She shrugs. "Nothing, anything. His fever is rising but his white blood cells are low. No cancer markers. Toxins in trace amounts, not enough to do damage. He's a walking pharmacy but that's nothing new. And his blood sugar is elevated."

"Diabetes?" He is baffled.

"His diet doesn't preclude it, but it wouldn't have this effect."

"How come the results are this quick?"

"I threatened to fire the lab if House died."

"A little motivation goes a long way." He sniggers.

Cuddy leans back into the chair, unamused, toying with her rubber band. "You?"

Wilson shakes his head. "I was just on the way to the lab, biopsy results are pending."

"Page me when you're done."

_…_

Cuddy walks in ICU, her shadow long and pale in the gloom of dusk. Approaching Greg's bed she takes him by the hand and forearm, stroking gently.

"Greg?"

Eyes flutter open, aimed forward to the ceiling corner, unfocused. "Pain." House whispers in a distant voice.

"Does your leg hurt?"

House's eyes go wide at the last word. "Flame. Acid." Voice is thick with tension.

She frowns, decides to err on the side of caution. "I'm upping your morphine." Her thumb rolls the small gauge a notch.

"Clot." He continues, oblivious to her statement. "Poison."

Her throat clogs up. "We gave you aspirin." She reassures. "You can't clot."

"Fire. Drug." His voice is louder, urgent. "Bug."

Cuddy shakes her head, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Sun."

"It's evening, House." Lisa replies dejected.

"Light. Manta!" He shouts. "DOUG! CHARLES!!" Hollering dies with lack of breath.

Cuddy shuts her eyes, bites her lips together with a silent, huffed sigh. She clears her throat a bit and grasps his shoulder. "Calm down. Relax."

Vacant blue orbs drift shut. Lisa lets go of him and walks to the foot of the bed. Blanket tossed aside, she scrapes his bare sole with her pen and the foot curves away on reflex. Noting another step down, Cuddy replaces the covers.

"Willow." The mumbled word is a belated afterthought.

Cuddy leaves with a defeated posture.

**…**

The dean pirouettes on the tips of her stilettos to the sound of doors shushing open in the imaging room. Wilson enters with Greg's thick medical file clasped in both hands.

"Good news or bad news?" She asks.

"Both." He walks to a light screen and stuffs a film in the clamp. "Good news is that it isn't cancer: Biopsy showed no abnormal cells…" He flicks the light on, neons blinking to life. "All organs pristine. He's got cardiopulmonary systems of a twenty years younger man."

"Makes sense with all the pacing he does."

Wilson stands akimbo. "Bad news is we don't know what it its."

"Maybe we do." She does not sound relived.

Wislon squints. "What do you mean?"

"Enlarged liver…"

"Hepatic encephalitis." He sighs resigned. "A decade of vicodin abuse."

She shakes her head. "Too early, the liver is not scarred, he's not even jaundiced."

"Is he getting better?" He glances her way.

Cuddy's head drops in defeat.

"Tests and treatment both disprove the alternatives."

"All the alternatives?" She insists.

"All we though of so far." Hands slap against his sides. "I'll test his liver functions, do a biopsy. You recall current treatments, get a pig and put him on an organ waiting list."

Her arms take hold of one another. "The transplant board will never allow it."

"Than we'll have to pull strings. Cash in favors." He shrugs.

**…**

Wilson paces the surgery halls in baby-blue ensemble of paper apron, face mask and skull cap. The taller surgeon stands at ready over the patient, but waits for the oncologist to enter, a wordless question in his lopsided brows.

House, covered head to toe with dark blue cloth, beard shaved and hair tucked under a half-transparent net, lies perfectly still and calm as if already anesthetized.

Seeking permission with just a look, Wilson is granted one with the surgeons slow, understanding nod.

"House?" Wilson calls out, voice slightly muffled from the mask. "Can you hear me?"

No response.

Hand in latex glove rubs hard at Greg's brow. A grunt is all the response Wilson gets, no attempt to move from the pain. His firm knuckle press into the center of lanky chest makes House gaze wide eyed for a moment, his gasp sharp.

"Shallow coma." The oncologist declares grimly, than nods his go-ahead. Pushing the OR doors open, he proceeds with removing the gloves, a gurney with a sedated animal wheeled past him.

**…**

At first light of the following day, a drained looking Cuddy finds an equally exhausted Wilson in the lab, hunched over a microscope.

"Fatty liver, first stage of failure." He answers the unspoken question. "You got him on the list?" He looks over the shoulder.

Her sad face is reply enough. "I've tried everything."

"Apparently not." He mumbles to himself.

"Yes, I did." She stomps over. "I even convinced them I'd have him in rehab and AA. Hell, I told them I'd get House a desk job, article review, medical research, diagnostic classes - anything without patient contact. I thought the no lawsuits concept would win them over. I'd even offered to get a considerate replacement like Chase to take over diagnostics, let the guy pick his own batch of fellows. They still refused."

Wilson turns around annoyed and miffed. "You'd stuff him in a nine to five job?"

"I'd spare him clinic duty." She counters.

Wilson rolls his eyes. "He'd die of boredom."

"In infectious disease research? Curing AIDS is such a drag." She snarks.

"You'd be making choices behind his back!" He insists.

"If it means having him live, yes!"

Fingers rubbing temples, Wilson ducks his head and shakes it sadly. "You haven't learned a thing."

Cuddy shoots him a murderous glare, looking away for a few moments before calming down again. "How is he?"

"Unresponsive." Wilson huffs.

"Than it doesn't matter - pig dialysis isn't working either. If it were his liver, it would be helping. Plus his enzymes are _elevated_." She holds out a readout.

Wilson looks genuinely dumbfolded. "With failing liver? And rising ammonia? That's impossible! " He snags the report from her hand.

"Apparently not." She watches his disbelief. "If only we had a brilliant diagnostician." her words are sadly bitter.

He fumbles with the paper. "I think it's time we made some calls."

_TO BE CONTINUED  
_


	2. House Keepers

**House Keepers**

Cuddy shuts the office doors behind her and takes a moment to gather her toughts. She seeks out a phone number from her stationary and dials Arizona.

Halfway across the country a cell phone rattles around, screen casting faint light in a couple's bedroom. A blonde man rolls from a brunette woman to prop up on one elbow, and shuts the thing up by answering the call with a quiet, groggy "Hello?"

"Chase…" Cuddy sounds apologetic for waking him.

"Doctor Cuddy?" He is genuinely surprised, Cameron sitting up behind him.

"I need help."

"What kind?"

She hesitates. "It's House… He's dying."

Robert's face goes blank momentarily, Cameron covering her mouth.

"He's in coma due to brain swelling. We've eliminated bacteria, viruses, drugs and poisoning."

"Fax me the file." Chase is back to his senses. "Cameron and I will take the first flight to Princeton. We'll call you if we get any ideas." The link is abruptly severed.

"Cameron?" Cuddy is left staring at the dead phone. Pushing that little gossip bait aside for the moment, she makes another call and switches to speakerphone.

"Foreman here." He sounds wide awake, a true early bird.

"I need a consult." Cuddy goes for vague, pacing round the desk.

"Why not ask House?" He is surprised.

She pauses by the windows, dawn a warm hue over Princeton. "I can't reach him." Her tone gives away more than intended.

A momentary silence falls between them. "He's the patient." Foreman states factually. "If he can't contribute to self-diagnosis than it's affecting his mind. That's why you called me."

"No. I called you because he taught you to deduce things out of thin air, and be right." She compliments him. "Like you did just now."

"Chase has more success with it." Foreman's tone is laden with refusal.

"Chase is not a neurologist." She counters.

Forman sighs. "I don't want to be near that man." He admits.

Tired and stressed, Cuddy feels her control slip. "You are one hypocritical jerk, you know that. House at least would never refuse a patient."

"No, he'd never blow a case off because its too boring." He bites back, just as pissed.

"He'd never blow it off without giving a diagnosis first, whether it took him a second or a week." She rises to his volume and heaves back to composed. "Want to prove you're a bigger man? Get back here and cure him in spite of your fallout."

Foreman thinks it over for a moment. "I'm coming." He hangs up.

**…**

Wilson sits in his office, tapping the expensive cell phone against the hardwood desk, eyes telling of an inner battle. The tapping pauses, followed by a deep breath of preparation. Scrolling to the bottom of his phonebook, he starts a call.

"Missis House? Wilson here. … It is him. … We're not sure. … Very serious. ... I think you should come to Jersey." He pauses. "Could I talk to John for a moment?" Knucles rapp on bloater as he waits. "Sir. We're having trouble completing Greg's medical history. It seams most of it is scattered throughout various army bases. Could you make some calls, have the files sent to us? We need every bit of info we can get. … Thank you."

Phone secure in his pocket, Wilson leaves his desk and heads out, hands rubbing over his sleepy face as he boards the elevator. In ICU he spots Cuddy setting up an EEG skullcap on House, a zillion pin-like sensors dotting the man's head through the elastic lattice.

Lines on a nearby LCD screen come alive, mostly sinuses of steady rhythm and fluctuating amplitudes.

"Diffused alpha waves." Wilson notes.

"Coma." Cuddy is not surprised.

A sudden, short phase of slower waves appears at some of the output points.

"Theta on the prefrontal." Wilson points excitedly. "He can hear us."

The smile fades form Cuddy's face as the brain output returns to the dull drone of inactivity. "But he can't do anything with it."

**…**

The sound of key turning in the lock resounds through House's empty apartment, door opening for Wilson and Cuddy. Looking around, Cuddy takes in the general mess of the place, beer cans and takeaway cartons surrounding the sofa and armchair, dirty clothing stwen about and dust covering almost every surface.

"Fungus." She declares from the small lobby. "This place reeks of it."

"It would explain why the antibiotics and antivirals didn't work." Wilson takes notice of an empty cage atop a corner bookshelf. "Or he could have whatever got to Steve." He takes a clear bag to sample sand and sawdust.

Noise of cabinets opened and closed comes from the kitchen as Cuddy rummages through them. "Organic compound poisoning?" She appears at the doorframe with a can of insecticide spray.

"His maid uses the cleaning agents." Wilson heads for the hall. "He doesn't come near the stuff." Once in the room his sights fall upon a nondescript tin box atop the nightstand. Inside he finds an injection gun and several chargers. A manual underneath all that is entitled 'Capsaicin based analgesic'.

"Did House mention any experimental treatment?" He calls out.

"No, but it would explain the glaring lack of Vicodin bottles in the living room." She walks past him and into the bathroom. The place looks tidy enough, and one peek in his medical cabinet reveals even more surprises.

"Nettle extract?" Wilson's surprised face appears in the mirror as he looks form behind her.

"Liver booster." She reads the description. "To offset paracetamol."

"He despises alternative medicine!"

"Aspirin is willow extract in a non-hippy packaging." Cuddy reminds as she pushes a box of that particular household drug aside. "Alternative meds leave no trace in pharmacy logs."

"And he'd do anything to avoid talking about medication." Wilson nods at the bottle of prescription antidepresives, picked up at Princeton General.

Cuddy looks at the bottle sadly.

"It's good that he's finally doing something about it." Wilson turns the situation around. "And that he's cutting down on morphine." He holds up a Vicodin bottle for her to inspect the label - same dosage, longer time frame.

Bagging everything, the two head out.

On the building's stairs Cuddy flips her cell phone open. "This is Dr Cuddy. ICU patient 101 is suspect of exposure to organophosphates, detergents, torpane and food poisoning. Order a through scrubbing and do a scratch test for allergens."

**…**

Through the blurry glass barrier between D-con shower and changing room, the weary pair of doctors watches on as their old friend is being scrubbed down by a pair of orderlies in suits befitting Chernobyl. His nude form is limp like a string doll in the cradling arms of the stronger man, skin sickly pale. Dried up, House is wrapped in a hospital gown and carried out by armpits and knees like a sack of dead weight, his head hanging out limp and mouth agape. A worried Wilson wraps his arm around a distressed Cuddy as they watch House wheeled away. Moments after, they separate and follow the gurney to ICU in a different elevator. Havings set up a mass of tubes and wires all over House, the nurses leave Wilson and Cuddy with their oblivious friend.

"Get some sleep." He advises. "I'll wake you if anything happens."

With a nod she heads out, leaving Wilson alone, uselessness washing over him.

**…**

Chase slips his credit card through a slit, prying the pay-phone from its cradle in the seat in front of him. Dialing a number, he sets up a laptop on his knees, text processor active.

In Princeton, ringing startles Wilson awake, head jerking up from the glass table.

"Diagnostics." He yawns.

"Cameron suggests allergy." Chase relies over the speaker phone.

"Scratch test came back negative."

Chase types it down.

"Maybe its an unusual allergen." Her voice is faint but clear, as if she is near the speaker.

Wilson shakes his head. "Received one cc of adrenalin as part of treatment for sedative overdose - didn't help."

"His temperature, sugar and ammonia are all elevated." Chase notes. "Looks like something is messing with the metabolism in general."

"That would be his swollen cerebrum pressing on the brain stem." Wilson is just short of derisive. "Sorry, didn't get much sleep tonight."

The phone rings again.

"Foreman is calling." Wilson declares. "I'll put us in conference mode. Hello?"

"I'm half hour from Princeton, what do you have so far?"

"We've excluded fungus, allergies and metabolism." Chase interjects to make their communication arrangement clear. "Fever with antipyretics is odd, are you sure its not infection?"

"Low white cell count." Foreman reminds.

"He may not be fighting back." Cameron suggests.

"AIDS?" Chase wonders "Given his love life..."

"It wouldn't progress this fast."

"Plus he didn't have so much as a cold since I know him." Wilson states.

"I was thinking something acute."

"Whatever it is, if he can't fight, no amount of anti-anything is going to save him." Foreman warns.

"I'll do an LP to settle the infection debate once and for all." Wilson sounds final. "Foreman - Any thoughts as neurologist?"

"Hereditary metabolic disorder."

Wilson squints. "Which one?" He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter, most would present in infancy. Kill him by first birthday."

"Considering his age and symptom onset, I'd say fatal familial insomnia."

"Fatal being the key word." Chase notes. "Could we try something curable first? Treatable at least? Not to mention that at this stage, any kind of genetic flaw would sooner be diagnosed with an autopsy than a DNA test."

"Only neurological thing left are prions."

"I think we would have noticed the swis-cheese appearance of his gray matter." Wilson reminds.

"Not if they're still microscopic."

"Too small to see on the scan – too small to see in behavior." Cameron states. "And coma is huge."

"What if the swelling isn't a symptom of inflammation." Chase risks. "Maybe its osmotic."

Wilson looks surprised and oddly satisfied. "Venogram, arteriogram and LP it is."

**…**

Foreman enters the darkened room, only a large swing-arm light illuminating Greg's form on the table, coiled in a fetal pose. A couple of monitors are lined up by Wilson's side, showing all kinds of stats, a discouragingly monotone EEG among them.

"LP clear." Informs the oncologist while preparing the catheter. "No infection or mineral imbalance."

"No response to sound either." Foreman nods at the EEG.

Wilson sighs. "Swelling must have reached the temporal lobe."

"How fast is it spreading?"

"A day to get from drowsy to coma in the frontal lobe, another half to get this far."

"Would you mind if I do the test?" Foreman nods at the older man's hands, shaking form exhaustion.

"I thought you wouldn't want to be anywhere near him?" Wilson's jab is all the more cutting for its off-handed delivery, but he hands the cannula none the less.

Foreman rolls his eyes and enters a jugular.

Wilson's eyes are locked on the screen. "Theta waves again."

"He can sense pain…" Foreman doesn't know if he should be glad for the man or not, but quickly focuses on seting up the central line, watching it appear on an x-ray. "I may not like House as a person but that doesn't mean I'd want to see him brain damaged." The voice softens.

Wilson squints. "You know what its like."

"First hand experience." Foreman replies calmly, eyes on the screen. "I'm in the aorta, injecting the dye."

"Blood coming in…" Wilson watches it branch through House's head, than retreat a similar path back. "…blood coming out. Lymph drainage steady. No residue." He sighs. "Plumbing clear."

Foreman retrieves the line. "Ten down."

**…**

Chase and Cameron enter diagnostics, where Cuddy, Wilson and Foreman are digging through a mountain of documents.

Chase is dumbstruck by the sheer amount of it. "What is all that?"

"House's medical history." Foreman replies. "He must have been the sickest sickly kid in history. Every year a pneumonia, every couple of months the flu, almost perpetual cold..."

"Until puberty." Cuddy corrects. "After that its blank until the infarction."

"If you ignore all the physicals he did with each new job." Wilson adds.

"That's an impressive immune system." Chase picks up a file as he and Cameron sit down among colleagues.

Cameron frowns at one of the reports. "Maybe it's too impressive."

"Autoimune?" Wilson follows her reasoning. "Again, low leucocytes."

"There doesn't need to be a lot of them – his brain isn't reproducing _or_ moving."

"But there are dozens of kinds of autoimmune." Cuddy sounds frustrated. "We'd never diagnose in time."

"Doesn't matter - the treatment is the same."

"If this is anything other than autoimmune we're going to kill him." Foreman warns.

"So we use steroids instead of radiation. He's on anti-inflamatory medicine anyway. If it works, great, if not we get him off steroids and the immune system recovers."

"Except House is short on time." The dean presses on. "We don't have maneuvering space to risk an error. If you're wrong he's gone."

"If we do nothing he's dead anyway." The younger woman is on the defensive.

Wilson and Cuddy share a knowing look but before either can speak their minds their pagers go off.

"His parents are here." She reads. "Foreman, you check his status."

**…**

"Mister and Missis House." Cuddy walks up to the old couple anxiously standing in the hospital atrium.

"Dr Cuddy." Blythe steps up to meet the dean. "How is Greg?"

Cuddy licks her lips subtly, swallows. "He's in deep coma."

Blythe gasps, John shuts his eyes.

"The good news is he is in it for only sixteen hours and hasn't dropped in fast, but descended gradually over a period of one day."

The parents calm again, attentive.

"That means he will probably wake up when we find out what is causing this."

"You don't know what's wrong with him?" John is unnerved.

"We believe it's autoimmune."

John senses her uncertainty. "But…?"

"We're not sure and we don't have enough time for definitive tests."

"Well wouldn't the treatment tell you that. If it works – you're right, if not – it's something else." John's words explain the source of Greg's genius.

"The treatment is just as dangerous." She informs. "If House has even a minor infection in his system, it will get out of control. And hospital acquired ones are most dangerous."

"You are saying the treatment could kill him?" Blythe is terrified.

Cuddy takes a deep breath. "Yes."

"And if you don't treat him?" Inquires John.

"His condition will get worse until it affects the autonomous functions: breathing, heartbeat…"

"You can put him on a respirator, a pacemaker." Blythe is grabbing for straws.

Cuddy gathers her sympathy. "Yes. And that will buy us a little time. But the longer he is this way the more likely there's going to be brain damage." She takes a moment to rephrase. "Swelling constricts the blood vessels, reducing the supply of blood to his brain, that's why it's not functioning now, merely surviving. And only becouse of the drugs he's on. It's slowly starving it out, and if we don't find a way to reverse it it's going to get worse. If it does get to the point of cardiac arrest, we would be supporting a brain-dead body."

Just then, Foreman strides over. "He's not sensing light and the knee-jerk reflex is abnormally strong. I just thought you should know."

Blythe can sense the bad feel of his news despite not understanding a thing. "What does that mean?"

"The swelling has spread to his occipital lobe." He elaborates. "Next stage is brain stem - respiratory failure."

John rubs his brow. "If you do it you will either save him or kill him. If you don't do it, you'll get time to do more tests, but there might be no one left to save once you know the answer?"

"I'm afraid so."

He huffs, arms crossed with one hand stroking the brow thoughtfully. "If this were Greg's patient… What would he do?"

Cuddy steels herself to face the truth of the matter. "He'd risk it."

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	3. House on Fire

**House on Fire**

Two nurses wheel House on a gurney into the preparation area: an older, stocky blond, and a petite black woman of late twenties, both covered head to toe in full surgical grab, right down to the disposable paper shoes. Inside, an equally dressed man, tall and athletic, waits next to an all metal table, not unlike the ones found in the morgue. There is a glint of silver in its finish, the purpose antiseptic.

The nurses remove a mass of sensor leads from House. Younger nurse pulls the IV from his arm while the matronly one disposes of the urine collection system. Stripped of the flimsy gown, House is moved from one surface to the other by the orderly.

The dark youth trims rowdy curls to the length of three-day stubble before dabbing his scalp with a wet sponge and working up a rather dry, almost foamy lather in the short hair. She wipes it off completely dry as the other woman takes care of his privates in a similar manner.

The rest of his front, sides and limbs is covered with a thin film of yellowish solution, iodine scent filling the room. Tincture removed with more sterile towels, he is rolled to the side, the process repeated on his back.

After cleaning him totally and thoroughly, the team dresses House in a new, ozone blasted gown, leaving behind a pile of stained laundry. The orderly picks House up bridal style and steps into the air shower under glaring violet lights. Doors slide open with a hiss, allowing them in a high-pressure environment.

On the other side, two tall figures stand in scrub overalls at the patient's new bed, only recognizable as Chase and Cameron by their eyes. The orderly places House on the mattress and, following an exchange of nods, leaves the clean room.

As silently as the team before them, the two doctors hook House up on a number of monitors, Chase threading the Foley while Cameron sets up a new IV, three bags hanging from the rack: morphine, nutrients and most importantly, steroids.

Chase observes Cameron as she monitors Greg's vitals. "Should I be jealous?" His question is a straight-face jest.

"Not for long." She returns seriously, taking several more samples of Greg's blood for further testing. "He'll either be cured or gone very soon."

Aussie can't keep the baffled look off his face, occasional hints of her inner Ice Princess still leaving him jarred. Having replaced the EEG skullcap, the man pokes a needle into Greg's forearm. "No perception." He states defeated.

Cameron looks thoughtful. "Try his leg."

The look in his eyes is a downright 'WHAT!?'

"I'll up his morphine if it triggers a lasting response." She is dismissive of the suggestion's seriousness.

Chase uncovers the thigh and clears his throat. "Sorry, House." He mumbles.

Thin metal sinks through flesh, all the way to the remnants of rectus femoris. No change.

"Dammit." He snaps.

Cameron taps on the upper side of House's forearm, fingers jerking open instantly. "Instincts still functioning."

**…**

"Good news." Foreman stepped into the dean's office with a new page of data to add.

Cuddy is at her desk while a sleepy Wilson sits up on the loveseat.

"No cases of dementia in the last three generations. Omma's DVT explains his predisposition to clotting. Extreme fitness, confidence and arrogance all came form House senior. Luckily there's no fatal familial anything – Whatever House has is probably curable."

Cuddy dismisses him with a nod and grabs another form from the mountain of backlog paperwork, Wilson returning to horizontal.

**…**

John stands cross-armed behind the glass wall separating him from his ill son, a grim expression in his features lit only by the faint, bluish security lights. In the nearby waiting room, Blythe is curled on a two-seat sofa, his jacket keeping out the cold. Only rarely does a distant echo of steps form some night-shift staffer interrupt the midnight silence.

The look on Greg's face is unnervingly still, different form the calm of sleep John remembers seeing on his son during the boy's childhood. His focus wanders over a multitude of screens, trying to decode the various acronyms, gauge the swarm of unchanging numbers that accompany each zigzag line. Eyes fall on the EEG, and without knowing what he's looking at, John can tell a significant change has happened. Once fast sinuses of rhythmically changing but always low amplitude have turned to slow, wide and uneven curves.

"Somebody call a doctor!" He shouts, racing to the main hall.

Blythe, startled awake, jogs after him as she holds the jacket around her shoulders. "John, what's happening?"

Pure, visceral panic radiates from the man's eyes, an expression Blythe never saw before, and one that makes her heart pound in her throat.

"I think he's getting worse." John whispers.

Foreman bursts through the double doors and enters no-man's land between the clean room and the hall, dressing up madly. Gloves, slippers and hat on, he holds the mask over his face, coveralls tossed over his front hanging loose.

Brown eyes smile. "He's sleeping." Neurologist paces to the barrier. "It's working." He addresses the elder couple.

Blythe cups her mouth, eyes wet with tears of joy. Standing behind her, John releases a sigh of relief as deep and strong as a gust of wind.

Foreman returns to House and checks his response to sight and sound, delta waves of deep, dreamless sleep turning to short bursts of roused theta at each stimulant. But a hint of something red on the edge of Greg's left arm stifles Foreman's excitement.

Turning the limb around, he is met with a huge red rash stretching from elbow to palm and covering the first three fingers. "What the-?"

**…**

"A rash." Wilson states disbelieving, arms crossed as he leans against the wood pane between diagnostics and his office. "In a clean room."

Foreman nods from the door.

"On steroids?" Cuddy turns from the windows to join the inquisition.

The neurologist shrugs. "Don't look at me - that's Cameron's specialty." He nods at the conference desk.

Four pairs of eyes turn to the young woman, looking as baffled as the rest of them.

"But he's getting better?" Chase, seated opposite Cameron, turns his attention to Foreman.

"Diffused global delta waves with temporary, properly localized thetas on stimulation." He relays the details. "No responses yet."

"So it is autoimmune…" Wilson follows. "But it isn't."

Hand on hip, Cuddy passes a hand through her hair, paces. "Until something bigger happens continue with steroids. Treat the rash symptomatically – topical antihistamine. " She searches Wilson's face for confirmation.

He nods in agreement. "Someone should be with him at all times, in case of anaphylactic shock."

Chase rises from his place. "I'll take the first shift."

**…**

Several hours into the vigil, Foreman comes to relieve the intensivist. "Chase…" He speaks, eyes locked on the EEG.

"Are those… beta waves?" The Aussie is excited. "Is he coming around?"

Under their silent watch, House's eyes drift open unfocused, parted lips trembling, fingers contacted in awkward spastic claws.

"House?" Chase looks down from the IV rack. "Can you hear-" He takes the man's arm. "He's burning!"

Temperature alarm beeps loud and irritating.

"Cold saline!" He orders. "STAT!"

The two stuff a pile of chilly plastic bags along Greg's neck and sides, under armpits and over chest.

"Kh-kh-kh-old." House's guttural stutter catches their attention. "S-s-so kh-kh-ol-d-d."

"I know, House." Chase clasps the older man's shoulder lightly, rubs it comfortingly. "I know."

"Let-t m-me in in-s-s-si-teh."

Foreman and Chase exchange baffled frowns.

"P-plea-s-s-s-e."

"House, you're having a fever." Foreman places his face in Greg's line of sight, blue eyes looking through brown, oblivious to the former fellow's presence.

"P-p-plese."

"Just hold on a while longer, House." Chase's voice encourages, alarm silent once the temperature fell below critical.

"Kh-kh-ant. Khold-d."

"This is for your own good, House." Foreman returns the firm sympathy House showed him when their roles were reversed, now over a year back.

"A a no." House nods, or is it just more shaking.

"Know what?" He frowns.

"A-am-m s-so-rrr-y. A a wont-t d-d-doh it-t-t a-ag-gen. N-n-evah."

"Do what?" Chase decides to see if House .

"B-b-be l-late." Comes a gulped reply. "P-p-please."

Outside the clean room, John House makes himself scarce.

A gasp dies on Greg's lips, shivers turning to stiff stillness before exploding in a full blown seizure, body rattling the bed it lays on as the EEG whines a long drawn, high pitched monotone.

"His temperature 's changing too fast." Foreman's tone is cussing as he rummages a crash cart for injections and drug vials, delivering a dose of anti-convulsant through the IV lead. Seconds after, House is slumped like a rag doll between the two men, machines finally quiet.

Unwillingly, Foreman faces the EEG readout, its lines back to delta pattern. "Chemical or physical cooling?"

The inensivist frowns at the screens, thinking. "Physical. The less drugs we give him the better."

Uncovering House's left thigh, Chase threads a thick, gold-wrapped catheter through Greg's femoral vein. "I'm just outside the heart." He announces, taping the tube in place.

"Cooler on." Foreman informs.

In minutes the body temperature stabilizes within normal range.

"This makes no sense."

**…**

Chase sits in diagnostics, precariously balancing on the chair's hind legs while paging through yet another medical file, this one with the seal of Okinawa Airbase. A surprising lack of infections catches his attention, and the puzzle pieces all fall in place.

Rising abruptly he storms out to Foreman's and Cameron's looks of surprise, bursting into the next door office.

"Did you know?" He near shouts at Wilson.

Thick brows knit together. "Know what?"

The file slaps atop Wilson's bloater.

"There's no way he could have grown out of it that fast." Chase snarls at the paper for the lack of a better target to vent his rage on.

Wilson flips through the pages, noting the dates of admission: eight in three months, mostly colds and flu, than a twisted ankle and after than nothing, for seven months. He closes the file and nods. "Few months ago we had a fallout. In anger, House let some things slip. I did the math."

"And you called him here!" Chase cant believe it. "House didn't even call them after the shooting!"

"How was I supposed to know the family history would be worthless." Wilson is louder but not jarred into anger. "We can't change what happened between them." He advises Chase to let it go.

Chase fumes silently, goes to leave. Hand on knob he hears Wilson's voice.

"Keep it to yourself. He would appreciate it."

With a curt nod the younger man steps out.

**…**

John House can hear the steps coming from a mile away. "It isn't what you think."

"That you think I think it is something bad tells me you think it might be." Wilson plays House's game, taking a seat on the bench opposite.

John looks away, studies the fall of water over glass. "I did it to teach him discipline, respect. I never vented on him. I made sure he knew in advance what happens if he breaks which rule."

"Mind if I ask what?"

"If he's late for a meal, he doesn't eat till the next one. If his grades suffer because of TV or friends, he doesn't get to enjoy them until the grades are fixed. All doors locked after curfew, if he's late he stays out overnight… If he gets into a fight he gets a cold shower to cool his head. The punishment would always fit his error."

"Did it ever occur to you that he didn't sign up for marines?"

John nods. "First time he didn't come home for spring break."

"What about positive reinforcement?" Wilson wanders.

"Blythe was the one handing out praise."

Now Wilson chuckles. "Labor division."

"Sort off." John sighs. "I told myself a long time that I did nothing wrong. But when I saw him delirious today… I didn't do anything right either."

Wilson doesn't know what to say.

"What are his chances?"

"It's too soon-"

"He had a seizure, for Pete's sake." John glares at the doctor.

"We expect him to wake up." Wilson begins with the good news. "So far the EEG showed no signs of damage due to the seizure. As for swelling…" He pauses. "We can't know exactly until he comes around, but the area affected the longest is right here. "Wilson points at his sinuses. "People that suffer damage there have problems socializing, empathizing, addiction, risk taking, inappropriate humor…"

John squints. "He can't get any worse?"

The men share a knowing snigger.

"No he can't."

**…**

The printer buzzes quietly in the corner of the darkened lab, far away from mid-day sun. Cameron pulls out the ANA test result.

"It's not lupus." She says without much surprise.

"Or MS - no myelin antibodies either." Foreman chimes from the other end of the lab.

Chase crosses out the diseases from a long list written on a notebook, Rasmussen, GALOP and several others already crossed out. "That was the last one. Others don't affect the brain."

"Not usually." Cameron is not discouraged. "Let's face it, whatever we're dealing with here is highly unusual."

"If you expand the search to those that don't usually have these symptoms you have to search for everything." Foreman points out. "You might as well give up!"

Robert's eyes meet Alison's. "He's right."

She nods. "We need a new differential."

**…**

Head in hands, Cuddy stares through the table of the conference room. "But he's getting better." She looks up. "How can he be getting better if it's not autoimmune!?"

"He's not." Wilson thrusts the door open in an urgent voice. "The rash you noticed isn't rash." He throws a glance at Foreman before passing over the rest. "It's blistered over."

"That's not possible, we ruled out infection!"

The neurologist's face turns blank. "Shingles."

Alison nods. "He gets chicken pox as a kid, recovers, the virus hides in a peripheral neuron and strikes back when we tank his immune system."

"Herpes Zoster doesn't spread through the body, right?" Cuddy is desperate for good news. "Not in recurrence."

"Unless he infects himself again through the IV leads." Chase looks bleak.

Wilson half-smiles in borderline hysteria. "And the adult complication of chickenpox's is…"

"Encephalitis." Cuddy mutters. "The treatment for the original condition opens the path for an opportunistic infection which has the same effect." Frustrated, her voice rises in pitch and volume.

"We have to switch him back to non-steroidal anti-inflammatory and add anti-virals." Wilson directs. "And bandage the blisters before they burst. If the virons are airborne before his immunity recovers…" He doesn't dare finish that thought.

**…**

Cuddy works the IV rack, returning House to the basic old meds while Allison wraps balm-soaked gauze around his left forearm and hand, careful not to break any blisters. She adds dry ones as further isolation. An impenetrable barrier is improvised around it with a carefully folded plastic sheet and a tourniquet holding it all tight around the upper arm. And if that weren't enough, even an unintelligibly groaning House is given a mask.

"This isn't going to help." Cameron states rather harshly. "It hasn't worked before."

Cuddy sighs. "I know."

"The steroids did."

"The antibodies all came back negative." Cuddy reflects the passive-aggressive tone back to Alison. "You're the one who did them. Twice."

"I know."

"Any ideas?"

"No."

**…**

Chase enters the clean room while placing on a pair of gloves, frown forming at the sight of the collection bag. The small amount of gathered fluid and its faint yellow coloration does not sit well with him.

"Call a nurse!" He addresses the watchful parents. "Tell her to disinfect a portable dialysis machine and bring it to clean room one."

Blythe jogs off in her tiny gait.

John steps closer to the barrier. "What's going on?"

"His kidneys are shutting down."

House senior slams his fist in the white-coated window frame.

**…**

Former fellows sit around the conference table, head seat gaping empty, waiting for House. Wilson and Cuddy stand at the wall separating them form Greg's office.

"All the drugs he's been on in the last two days…" Chase mumbles. "All it did is box his kidneys."

"How long?" Cuddy voices what no one else can.

"Kidneys will recover. The EEG is back to alpha."

A gloom descends over the doctors, and as if that weren't bad enough, their pagers start going off in rapid succession. The team storms off like a stampede, rushing into Quarantine in record speed.

"What's happened!?" Shouts Wilson from the main gate.

Brenda steps from the airlock. "He's jaundiced."

Arms akimbo, Wilson swallows hard. "What are the chances of House waking up with brain damage?" He asks the neurologist, eyes locked on House.

"Depends. What kind?"

"Severe loss of higher functions."

"Wilson?" Cuddy's tone demands an explanation.

He ignores her. "What are his chances?"

"Prolonged insomnia, repeated inflammation, seizure… He's not coming out untouched."

"We can save half a dozen lives." Wilson replies cryptically. "But only if we act fast."

Horror is paited on the doctors faces as they follow his logic.

"What?" Chase is stunned. "You can't just give up!"

"When House suffered the infarction he chose to risk his life to keep his leg. If he wakes up unable to practice medicine he's never going to forgive us. Any of us. "

"Wilson, you are not pulling the plug!" Cuddy threatens.

Cameron steps up. "Do we even know who his proxy is?"

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	4. House of Healing

**House of Healing**

Cuddy replaces the phone in its cradle with disappointed weariness.

"Well?" Wilson is jumpy by her desk.

"He told Stacy, and I quote: _'Esther knows.'_ Whatever that means." She whispers the last part.

"Is Esther a friend?" Blythe asks, trying to place the name.

"She was a patient." Wilson explains. "First one he lost."

John's head turns down, disappointed, his grip around Blythe's shoulder tightening a little.

"Esther…" Chase mumbles from the corner. In less than a second he shoots Cuddy a eureka look and storms off, down the hall. When the elevators refuse to open immediately he flies up three flights of stairs, bursting into House's office. He pulls the bottom drawer right out of the desk, textbooks flying out until…

"Got it." He slaps the old medical file on the bloater, noticing others pour into the room out of the corner of his eye. With a bracing heave and puff, he opens the thin cardboard folder, crumpled on the edges, space once occupied with treatment notes now holds an unmarked manila envelope. Chase is quick to tear it open with a nearby ink pen, but slow to pull out a folded piece of paper.

On the outside, scrawled in Greg's handwriting, is but one word, font big enough to fit the whiteboard.

"What dose it say?" Cuddy's voice is on edge.

Chase, dumbstruck, turns around to show them.

_YOU_

Forman chuckles. "It _is _you. You found it. You figured it out. Means you know how he thinks. Means you're fit to decide for him. It's perfect." He grins.

"Leave it to House to make his future dependant on a game." Cuddy mumbles just short of anger.

"It's not a game." Wilson explains, a backdrop of disappointment in his tone. "It was a test puzzle before the real deal. He needs you to solve this puzzle, than get to decide on the course depending on what the answer is."

"You're right." Cameron meets his eyes. "He did the same with Ezra Powel." She glances over the other doctors.

Chase goes to replace the paper.

"Wait." John shouts. "There's more inside." He points to the blurry text, visible from his angle, with the folded paper in strong counter light.

Chase folds the paper open. In more handwriting a in informal living will is written out in great detail and very personla style.

"_Dear concerned citizens..._

_I'm out of it, huh? Well that sucks. Okay, here's what you need to know regarding some minor details like, I don't know… death and stuff like that."_

Forman winces at the phrasing.

"_Detail number one - proxy:_

_To my folks – Cameron's right, family can't make decisions that make experienced doctors bang their heads against the wall. The lack of medical background excuses you from making the hard choices. Chip in if you want to but the final call aint on you."_

John and Blythe make small, understanding nods, relived even.

"_To Lisa – compromise and clinging are your middle names, not mine. Nothing personal, baby._

She looks at Wilson with pleading eyes.

"_To Jimmy – you're so determined not to make Cuddy's mistakes, you're too blind to your own extremes. Nothing personal there either, bro. You two are relived of the burden."_

He frowns. "Than who?"

"_The one to make the calls is the one who found the letter, the one I groomed as successor."_

Chase looks up bewildered, his expression a dumbstruck 'ME?'

"_But first a few tips:_

_If it's certain disability or likely death, risk it. Even if my brain is at stake. __**Especially**__ if it's my brain._

_If it's certain or highly likely that I won't come back in a reasonable time, will come back a drooling moron, mentally present but in a useless body, or am experiencing pain despite being out of 'comission' – put me out of my misery."_

Wilson feels oddly unsatisfied with the knowledge that his position was vindicated and Foreman knows exactly when he last clause was added.

"_If it's a low probability of any above mentioned, and I'm not in pain, give me a shot. Same goes for mild disability, physical or mental. I'll learn to compensate. Always was a quick study."_

_You are not, I repeat, not to make any decision unless you know __**exactly**__ what you're dealing with. Once you do, you are not to stray from the guidelines and you are not to ignore evidence of my condition, no matter how dark."_

Several people are relived.

"_The assessment of probabilities I leave to __Wombat's __discretion - the force is strong in that one." _Chase's voice hitches momentarily. He clears the throat. _"The only thing you're allowed to pray for, altar boy, is inspiration. I don't want no miracles muddying up my come-back." _Young doctor smiles.

"_To Mort - Hold the scythe, dude. I'd like to go off pain free. You know, one last shot of the good stuff for the ride." _

Forman grins despite himself.

"_Now, regarding my pound of flesh, you'll find a donor card in my wallet. Take everything you can before you pull the plug. It would be way cool to have a half-dozen religious oddballs turning sarcastic heathens all of a sudden."_

John shakes his head.

"_Oh, and Cuddy - I do mean everything."_

She smiles a ghost of a mysterious, knowing smile, an inside joke shared between the two.

"_Feel free to teach anatomy with what's left. The more good doctors trained, the better. Consider that my legacy. Cremate the chopped meat when you're done, 'kay?_

_(Huh. Guess you were right Wilson, I am gonna burn. Cool!)_

_Scatter the ashes over the John Hopkins Lacrosse field. That's the one place this grounded blue jay was truly happy. _

_Oh, and feel free to drink yourself senseless before, after or during any of the above mentioned events. But don't get me wrong, I do hope to annoy you guys and gals again."_

The signature reads simply _'Gregory House'_ , and it is under no circumstance a girly one. A moment of staring into space, Chase folds the paper.

"We'll leave you to work." John ushers Blythe out.

"What's his status?" Ausie looks up finally, reins of the differential in his hands.

"Kidney's are recovering, Liver still failing. Deep coma, vitals stabile, temperature holding." Cuddy recites his latest chart input. "He's on IV nutrition, painkillers and non-steroid anti inflammatory; off antiviral and antipyretics. Temperature is kept down mechanically. He's also on dialysis."

"How long till respiratory arrest?" He asks Foreman.

"The swelling is spreading faster than before. A day at most."

"Doesn't matter. A day from now he'll have so much amonia in himself not only will he not be a donor, he'll need a bunch of organs himself, even if we do find the answer." Cuddy is frustrated.

Chase squints. "You said he was taking an off-counter liver booster?" He aims a pen at the dean.

She nods.

"What if we put him back on it?"

"Won't counteract whatever it is that's doing the damage. The liver might not fail but it won't be able to do its job."

"Call a sty. Tell them we need their biggest hog. Get him on silimarin also."

Cuddy nods and leaves.

"Let's get back to the basics. - HEI" The black marker is popped open. "Hereditary, Environmental, Infectious." He writes on the whiteboard.

"Family history rules out genes." Foreman states.

Chase crosses the thing off.

"LP rules out infection." Wilson reminds.

Another one eliminated.

"Environmental would get better on admission." Cameron admits reluctantly.

"What if it is something in here." Chase counters. "He works here."

"We work here too." Wilson counters.

"Maybe you haven't been exposed enough? It could be something from this office." Chase looks over the bottles of chemicals completing the ancient pharmacy look. "Check everything in the room."

"If we're thinking poisoning - Iron toxicity?" Cameron offers.

"He eats junk food!" Wilson and Forman are unanimous.

"Damaged brain and liver. Lack of sleep interferes with his regeneration. Low white count makes him susceptible to the flu. Ammonia damages kidneys... Symptoms all fit."

"We found a lot of pills in his place but no diet supplements." Wilson counters.

"I didn't say he ate it deliberately." Cameron is on the defensive, but there's something unnerving about her tone.

"You think this is malicious!?" He can't believe her ears.

"He's been shot." She shrugs.

Forman waves a hand. "We drew a pint of blood from him."

"And gave him Oh neg to compensate."

"Grab a leech." Chase nods at her. "And while you're at it test for other deliberate toxins that affect the brain. If we're going to be paranoid let's do it properly."

Cameron and Forman leave also, Chase turning to the small bottles lining a low credenza.

"Need a hand?" Wilson offers as he starts rummaging the cabinets. "Can't believe we overlooked his work place."

"Or people he pissed off."

"That too…"

**…**

Slouched in the faded yellow recliner, Chase studies Greg's office in hopes of getting an inspiration, pen clicked on and off incessantly.

"He's not being poisoned." Cameron reports on arrival.

"Nothing deadly in the office either." He follows the trend.

She sits on the ottoman.

"Why did he pick me?"

"Because Foreman and I didn't spend five years studying under him and you did. Becouse you were the one pulling miracle deductions when he wasn't present, in body or mind."

His nod is just a reflex, eyes distant.

Door whines to admit Foreman, the three musketeers complete. "Liver isn't getting better."

**…**

"Even with the pig, by the time we fix him he's going to need a new liver." Wilson plays devil's advocate.

"And the transplant committee isn't going to be any more generous than last time." Cuddy joins in.

"What about a live donor?" Cameron suggests.

"Who would give a piece of his liver to him?" Foreman shoots her down. "Even his patient's don't like him."

"His father looks healthy enough."

"Only one potential donor. Those are slim shots."

"I'll test for compatibility." Wilson stares the neurologist down.

"Me too." Chase chimes in.

"Cuddy?" Wilson stares at her back, wondering why she isn't jumping on track.

"I can't." She gives a brief answer, no reasons offered.

"Guess we could." Cameron looks at Foreman.

He sighs silently. "Why the hell not."

Three former fellows depart.

"What is it?" Wilson is at her side, his voice welcoming.

"Last charity ball there was this sleazy recent millionaire that wouldn't take no for an answer. House bailed me out and vanished soon after. Some other donor wanted to meet the infamous diagnostician and I went looking. Found him on the roof. 'Taking a breather from prostituting himself for the hypocrits' he said."

"Prostituting?"

"They pay us to make them feel good about themselves when we'd rather have nothing to do with them. – His words. As usual, he was right. If they really gave a damn they wouldn't need an excuse to donate. We wouldn't have to beg them." She huffs. "Anyway... I stuck around for a while and we chatted, nothing special. When the show was over he was tipsy going drunk. So I snagged his bike keys, insisted I drive him home. He went along. When we pulled up he offered me coffee. If I would not let him drive drunk he would not let me drive sleepy. I accepted. Coffee didn't come along for another twelve hours."

Wilson frowns momentarily. "Oooh…."

"Yeah." Cuddy smirks. "We never mentioned it since. Two days ago I did a hormone test. On me. It came back positive."

"So You're-?"

A nod.

"And he's-?"

Another nod.

"Wow."

**…**

Desperate for answers, Chase opens the vacuum-sealed bag and throws Greg's stuff out. Digging through the pile of clothes, he sniffs each item for signs of unusual smells but finds none. Something shiny and red catches his attention and he pulls a lollypop from the jacket's pocket.

Hand fishing out a cell phone from his lab coat, he dials Cuddy. "Get him off anti-inflamitory."

"What?"

"Now!" He races up the stairs.

"That's the only thing keeping him alive!"

"I don't think so." He enters the ICU in time to hear the whine of pulse-ox monitor alarm.

"Chase, where are you?" She shouts over the noise. "What's going on!?"

"Gotta go." He closes the phone, hands urgent to intubate House, whose chest have stopped moving. Just as he turns the respirator on under the worried looks of Greg's family, the dean runs in awkwardly.

"What are you doing!" She glares at him, racing for a head-on collision to ward him away from the IVs.

Backing off, he glares at her. "What's in his best interest."

"I beg to differ." She returns the glare.

"I'm his proxy!"

"_You._" She points threateningly. "-are a visiting physician with no formal authority, and _I_ am the chief of this hospital. Nothing happens here unless I allow it and I will _not_ let you take him off treatment."

"Your treatment is what's killing him!" Chase insists.

Her face is sheer bafflement. "Wha- How?"

"It's Reye's."

"Chase, he's fifty, not five!"

"Adults can be affected too."

"Don't you think somebody would notice it by now?"

"The only two constants from before admission and are salycilates and viruses: first the aspirin and flu, now herpes and the anti-inflamitory."

"That's an unbelievably long shot." She shakes her head.

"You _have _to believe me." Chase implores. "House did, and _he _doesn't believe anyone!" Hand aims expressively at the still man.

"Do it." John ends their argument. "If Greg's letter isn't a valid document to you than Blythe and I still decide his treatment, right?"

"Yes." Cuddy admits.

"I have no idea what you two were arguing about but I know this. House is famous for figuring out what ails people. If you're his best student, you call the shots." John nods at Chase. "Tell his regular doctor to do as the man said." He pins Cuddy with his stare.

"Get him off everything but saline." Chase orders Brenda. Switching House to new regimen, he seeks out the elder Houses.

"What do you think is the problem?" Blythe is curious.

"In children, a substance found in aspirin and some other drugs, can have bad interactions in the presence of a virus. It seems to stop after puberty, though not always. Hou- Greg never noticed being among susceptible because his immune system usually removes the germs before they get inside."

"To our knowledge he has been self medicating a lot, taking aspirin to prevent another clot. Than he got a flu shot a week ago."

"You see, vaccines are made from neutralized viruses but one in a billion shot will be faulty. A person is infected with what they're supposed to be protected from. That's the risk we all take with every vaccination. Unfortunately, he received a load of active viruses while taking aspirin. His immune system kicked in but the interaction already started."

"I see." John nods.

"He probably increased the dose to fight the fever and nausea the flu caused. That only made things worse. When the nausea and fever dropped, he took it for a good sign but it wasn't. What happened is that the complication moved into the next stage. The first symptom he noticed was inability to fall asleep. By the time he came looking for help, the virus was defeated. His white blood cells were low because they are regenerated mostly while we sleep. That's probably why no one noticed it before."

"He got better temporary not because he was on steroids but because he was off salycilates. The steroids ruined his immune system and an old virus kicked in. We reversed the treatment again and he was downhill again, this time with two completely different interacting substances."

"Oh my…" Blythe covers her mouth.

"He really has the worst luck." John's pose falls a shade.

"Reye's syndrome, the condition he's got, tends to be milder and develop slower in adults but House was exposed for a long time. The good news is that adults tend to make a full recovery."

"He did get better for a while." Blythe nods hopeful.

"Exactly."

"And the seizure?" asks John.

"Nothing dangerous in and of itself. Epileptics have them all the time. EEG shows no abnormalities for now. It's not any one thing that happened to him that we fear-"

"-It's all of it put together." John follows.

Chase nods.

"Thank you doctor." Blythe gives him a squeeze on the hand.

**…**

"Doctor Chase!" Blythe calls out from the bottom of the hall. "He's choking."

Chase runs to House's side and pulls the tube out, other hand shutting down the respirator at the same time. "He's breathing on his own again." His eyes find the slow, meandering delta waves written all over the screen.

"House? Can you hear me?"

Eyes flutter open unfocused and close shortly after. The flicker of chaotic beta waves indicating alertness smooths out once more.

Chase smiles at the old couple. "He's recovering."

Senior Houses share a relived embrace while a tired Chase decides to crash finally .

"Doctor Chase!" John calls after the man. "What about his liver?"

"Results aren't back yet."

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	5. Round the House

**Round the House**

Forced to process ammonia from a body several times its size, the creature which supported House died of multiple organ failure in his stead. Now he is back in ICU, in a state of deep, dreamless sleep, albeit bereft of the myriad life support machines, and a lot less sensor strings attached. With only the IV feed, Foley cath and pulse ox, he looks almost naked, face gaunt from the recent brush with death.

Having finished with the backlog of necessary paperwork, Cuddy is at his side because that is what she does, not as a boss concerned for her best employee but as something which even an erudite like he has no word for. She knows the pallor of infirmity is only a temporary improvement; it is only a matter of hours before the ochre tint of jaundice returns.

"Foreman says you can hear." Tentatively she begins, her back to the hallway glass panes and her voice low. "Not sure if you'd understand. … I need to tell you anyway. … Let's just say you haven't drunk yourself sterile yet." She smiles a little at the small miracle. "I'm not sure if it'll hold though." Immediately the defense mechanism of not hoping to much kicks in.

"You'd be surprised how many people want to give you a piece of their liver. We're waiting for the compatibility tests to come back. I even tested myself. That's how optimistic I am about being mom." She chuckles sadly. "Can't miss what you never had, right?" A sniffle. "Please wake up, House." Cuddy leans in, their foreheads touching. "I don't wanna miss you."

She feels something brush he cheek lightly and sharply pulls away.

House's eyes flicker open slowly, lips parted slightly in an effort to communicate, but only a raspy sound emerges.

"Don't try to speak." She holds a finger to his lips.

Blue eyes turn to her, struggling for focus.

"Nod if you can hear me." Trepidation is obvious in her voice.

Head tips a degree.

She takes a deep, bracing breath. "Do you know who you are?"

With slow-motion mobility his long fingers join at the tips, slanted like a roof, thumbs perpendicular to the palms forming the base and side walls to form a picket-fence home.

Cuddy smiles relived on seeing his identity and ingenuity preserved. "Do you know where you are?" She moves on to test his memory.

He blinks in slow motion, obviously tired.

"Do you know who I am?"

His grin, a shadow on lips but a mischief spark of eyes, says it all.

Cuddy, her hand over his, gives him a small squeeze.

The bandage covered arm rises, shaky fingers forming a loose pointer that is vaguely aimed at his chin, oscillating between mouth and throat.

Cuddy leaves for the nearby table. "Hold on." She returns with a plastic cup, guiding the straw to his parched lips while supporting a barely upright head. Still weak arms meet her own on the cup and a smile creeps to her lips.

Slowly he empties the cup, leaning back into the pillow with an expression of gratitude clear in his tired features.

Manicured hand rakes through porcupine hair. "Relax."

He nestles the head deeper in the pillow fluff, eyes closed on a face that is peaceful and no longer empty.

Slight squeal of hinges makes Cuddy turn back and see Blythe in the frame.

"May I…" Whispers the older woman.

"Of course." Cuddy steps away from House, following the older woman's approach. "Just stay quiet."

Blythe nods, hands clasped over her son's unbandaged one. "Doctor Cuddy, are there any problems?"

"None so far." The two exchange smiles of relief. "When he wakes up call doctor Foreman."

They nod each other farewell.

**…**

It is only by accident that John House turns the corner to ICU waiting room at the moment of his son's awakening, and is left speechless with joyous relief soon turning to apprehension of not knowing what to do. Leaving the hall before anyone can spot him, he saunters to diagnostics, empty since the former fellows have made themselves available in other departments.

He walks through the room like a museum visitor, taking in each item whilst trying to guess its meaning to Greg, to gauge its importance. By the time he has circled the desk and sat in junior's chair John must admit being at a total loss.

Among the many varied possessions the blonde doctor has recently dug out of Greg's desk, an old fashion cassette, unique among original vinyl records and high tech CDs, pulls his focus.

Picking the thing, John reads the badly scribbled 'lax motivational gospel', his interest further piqued by the unfamiliar, unexpected and unusually arranged words. He fumbles with the stereo for a moment before a decidedly black woman with a slightly British accent starts to more or less recite.

_I look into the window of my mind  
Reflections of the fears I know I've left behind  
_

John realizes loosing Greg isn't so much a fear now as it is regret, junior sometimes feeling too far gone.

_So I step out of the ordinary  
I can feel my soul ascending  
_

But some habits are so ingrained...

_What have you done today to make you feel proud? _She asks at one point._  
_

He can't remember the last time he did something truly honorable.

_It's never too late to try._

Somehow he doubts it. He's old, his son grew up, and into a better man. Because despite self deluding, it is Greg who, for all his disregard of anything resembling rules, saves people on a weekly basis, while John's latest act of chivalry was flying in it to cover trapped infantry, way back in 'Nam.

_Still so many answers I don't know.  
_

And what else does he know about Greg anyway.

_Realize that to question is how we grow.  
_

Well Wilson felt approachable.

_So I step out of the ordinary  
I can feel my soul ascending  
_

Maybe…

The singer pokes, encourages, urges…

At the last chorus John stands up, marching out with all the determination of a seasoned marine, choir heard from the office keeping him from faltering on the way to the other doctor's office.

The door is opened.

"Mr House?" Wilson stands up surprised. "Please…" He makes a broad gesture over the guest chairs.

Risking rudeness, John settles at the sofa, elbows on knees, palms rubbing against each other in nervous postponement. "What is Greg like?" He looks up.

**…**

A covert wave of apprehensive impatience washes over Princeton-Plainsborough in the next several hours, as one by one the doctors receive independently ordered tests.

As dean, Cuddy is first to find out, having used her influence to skew regular priorities. A readout is faxed straight from the lab, and in seconds from pulling the sheet form the machine, she lets it float down to the center of her desk, relief and regret fighting on her face. In bold red on white the test declares a complete mismatch on all six points.

Wilson receives his from Brenda, just as he's about to drop a patient's file at the clinic's nurse station. He tears open the sealed envelope with haste, only to crumple the paper in frustration and fling it to the distant trash can.

John paces the hall, scanning document handed to him by a nurse only moments ago. Suddenly he rips the thing in half, heaving mad. Seeing tears well up in his wife's eyes, he steps closer and envelops her in a bear hug, his own sorrow silent.

Cameron raps on the door of NICU, grabbing Chase's attention. At her apologetic shake of head his eyes close in defeat, posture sinking.

Foreman sits in the hospital chapel, tapping the folded paper against the empty hand. His deep musings are interrupted by the pager beep.

'House awake and alert.' It reads.

Clipping the device to his belt, Foreman stuffs the paper in the lab coat pocket and heads out.

Moments later he is at the private room. "Misses House, could you give us a minute."

"Of course." She leaves the two in private.

"You look good." Foreman walks over.

House replies with an unspecified. "Hm."

"Any dizziness, confusion?"

He shakes his head, unintentionally proving the same.

"Nausea, diarrhea, abdominal pain…?"

"Tired." House replies flatly, bandaged limb held up. "Hurts."

"A little soreness is normal while the perforations heal." Foreman tests the peripheral reflexes, limbs jerking properly.

"What happened?"

"Coma. Person, place, time?"

House gives him a 'puh-leaze' look. "Gregory House, head of diagnostics, five years old single male. Aliases: Greg, Greggers, G-man and Jerk."

Foreman hides a smirk. "Go on."

House looks around. "Private recovery room of ICU, Princeton-Plainsborough, Princeton, New Jersey, US of A, Earth, Solar system, Local spur of the milky way Galaxy."

Forman tilts his head, suspecting compensation. "Time?"

"2007. I know I was out of it but I'm guessing… Late August?"

Forman's eyes slide shut. "September Sixteenth."

House's nods curtly.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

He pouts, thoughtful. "My office … high summer… playing guitar … Cuddy… something abut hiring fellows."

"What happened?"

"I… don't know." He is upset at it.

"Unless you experience trouble forming new memories, a little lost time is nothing compared to what could have happened."

"You haven't tested my skills yet."

"Language skills is just fine. Trivia too. Now close your eyes and touch your nose with the right index."

Older man successfully obeys. "Want me to walk a straight line?"

"Maybe later. Kinesthetic sense and motor control are fine. Humor intact." Pen light moves briskly across both eyes before retuning to the pocket. "Does your leg hurt?"

"A little. How long have I been out?"

"A week."

House mulls it over. "Nerves wouldn't have enough time to regenerate receptors." He speaks to himself.

"I'm guessing those experimental meds are designed to over-stimulate the pain receptors. Make them less sensitive over time?"

House nods.

"Medical knowledge looks good so far."

"Chart." House makes a 'gimme' gesture.

Foreman hands it over. "You understand any of that?"

"I _think_ I do." House continues to leafs through the notes. "Reyes _and_ Chickenpox." House states in mixed amusement and astonishment.

"Reading skill intact." Foreman notes.

"I must still be young at heart." He smirks.

"Yeah, a real brat."

"Liver failure…" House winces.

Foreman wonders why he isn't asking abut transplant.

"Why did you come back?"

"Cuddy called me." Foreman replies a bit too quick. "Why did you go to the apartment?"

"Hm?"

"When I had Naegleria. Cameron told me you went back to the cop's place without protection. Why?"

"To make a diagnosis."

"Deep brain biopsy - "

"Left you brain damaged." House cuts in sharply. "Figured you'd rather pass that."

"You cloud have gotten infected."

"I did." He says off handed. "Got meds before it became symptomatic."

"It could have been a new bug, incurable."

"Long shot."

Foreman shakes his head. "You don't risk your life for other people. Career, yes. Jail, maybe. You know Cuddy has your ass cover and never goes beyond extra clinic duty."

"Why are you so interested all of a sudden?" House squints for a moment. "You tested."

Foreman breaks eye contact.

"And you're positive." He tosses the cover and sits up to face the younger man. "If you can help someone the only thing that matters is whether they want your help or not. You don't calculate if it pays off. You don't calculate if they deserve you getting fired, sick or dead. And you sure as hell don't do it _in their face_!"

Foreman stands silent.

"You're afraid of becoming me?" House lies back. "You've left me in the dust." He shoots one last glare of disdain before turning away, pointedly ignoring.

Finally the man takes a clue and leaves.

"Have someone fix my arm."

"Fine." Reply reeks of finality and frustration.

**…**

At the sound of doors opened Blythe looks up from House's bed side while pretty brunette nurse applies a balm under his appraising eye.

"I want my new pain meds." House preempts any greetings.

"Nice to see you too, House." Wilson ambles over, his optimism indestructible. "I've got it covered." He holds up the injection pen.

"Bout time. I was beginning to think I'd get to go through the joy of adaptation all over again."

"Greg!" Blythe slaps him lightly on the shoulder. "He had an argument with the other doctor." She apologizes.

"He had an argument with the Universe." Wilson declares with acceptance. "Where do you inject?"

House shoots him a glare. "In the bathroom."

"Ha, ha. Seriously, does it matter?"

"Walking speeds up recovery." Older man ignores him.

"That's post op, not post coma. We don't ever know if you _can_ walk. Where?"

"Leg." He mutters, glance passing between mother and nurse.

Understanding, Wilson pulls the gown only an inch, to get access of rectus femoris without exposing the scar, now hidden under his palm. "This is gonna hurt a little." Fingers bite into muscle and release to enable a good blood flow.

House winces at the kneading, head thrown back. He can feel the hair thin needles pierce skin, heat gushing to aching muscle. Sweat buds over his face, nostrils flaring as he heaves. "Should have restarted from minimal concentration." He mutters through clenched teeth.

"Sorry." Wilson ups the morphine.

House shakes his head vigorously. "I'll be fine." Goes out on a pant that adds 'not soon enough'.

"How do you feel? I mean otherwise."

"They forgot my lunch." House looks pointedly at the nurse about to finish up bandaging.

"You're scheduled for transplant." Wilson excuses the staff. "Wait - you're hungry?"

'Du-uh' House glares at him.

"Liver failure should cause lack of appetite and nausea, not hunger." Wilson searches the drawers for a blood kit. "Any other symptoms?"

"Nope."

"Greg?" Blythe looks at her son, sensing something.

"It's nothing, mom." He leans back with his eyes closed, breathing deepening as the opiate kicked in, self suggestive pain relief added to treatment. "Just Jimmy's wishful thinking." Deeps set blues seek out bushy browns. "Who diagnosed me?"

"Chase."

"So the fellows came back…"

"Rushing."

House nods once, slowly, as if inputting that fact in some mental equation.

**…**

It is Cameron who comes to give House the details of his post transplant life, not that he needs reminding.

"The biggest issue will be immune suppression." She starts on home turf.

"A chance to get first hand experience of my first specialty – infectious disease."

"The recurrent illnesses might take as much as a decade off your life expectancy."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." House waves her off. "I'll be a mortal like you – got it."

"There will have to be changes in your diet."

"No booze or junk food. Oh, happy day." He snarks.

"Most importantly no vciodin."

"Yippe." He chirps unenthusiastically, eyes on nurses arriving to prepare him for surgery.

In minutes he is wheeled through the hospital, prepped all the way to the skull cap, his gurney pausing next to Foreman's at the elevators. Neither man turn to the other.

"How's New York?" House defies custom with small talk.

Foreman shrugs. "It's okay."

"How can you let the rich white boy steal your thunder? You got out of a gang to wallow in mediocrity?"

"I didn't become a doctor to kill and torture." Foreman bites back

"You and I can't not have an opinion. We can change it like socks but we have to have one. And once we do we have to act on it. Sure, you can crush the impulse, your conscience will happy as a kid on Christmas. But you won't. You're not." Just as the elevator pings, House looks at the former fellow. "Thank you."

Before Foreman can process the words, pod doors slide shut after the man.

**…**

Scalpel makes the first, two inch long and half inch deep incision through the abdominal wall when a ringing comes form the corner.

"Somebody get that please." The surgeon directs while reaching for the next instrument.

Soft soled slippers tap away. "OR 1" An alto speaks form the background before turning to the table. "WAIT. Check his sclera."

Anesthesiologist pulls eyelids apart. "It's normal."

"What's going on?" Asks the surgeon with impatient annoyance.

"Latest blood works show normal enzyme probes and ammonia levels."

"Tell the other team." He waves at the swing door between ORs.

Retractor in hand, the surgeon pulls apart folds of skin, adipose and connective tissue for a look at the liver. "Normal size and color, no fatty tissue visible, no lesions. Overall healthy appearance. The Liver has recovered - call off the transplant and stitch him up." He pulls out of the abdominal cavity to peer over the barrier between himself and the knocked out House, arms crossed. "You really can't let me have an uninterrupted procedure, can you House?"

**…**

Consciousness comes and goes in waves as the anesthetic fades. Hours into the drift House makes out a youthful blond face hovering above his, blurry in strong neon counterlight.

"m ay in hevn?" He slurs with a quizzical look.

The face smiles. "Not yet, House." Chase replies, features coming to focus.

"Padawan Wombat." House greets with an affectionate, idiotic grin, still a bit out of it. He rolls to the side to face the man, lifts one arm only to let it drop on Robert's shoulder. "Yee rrr knighted." Hand drags up over his face before dropping at the other shoulder, Chase following it with a baffled look and pulling back.

"I'm a Jedi?"

"A spiritual, irreligious Ausie you are." House makes the drunken connection, finger up for emphasis.

Chase laughs. "And you're supposed to be Yoda?"

House, a little more sober, makes an insulted face. "I've got a cane, don't I?"

Chase chuckles.

"I've heard you've got a spot at Mayo."

"Pediatrics." He nods. "Department head is retiring in two years."

"Shooting high? Good for you. Ours is being promoted to WHO, leaving in December. Cuddy 's looking for a sub. Interested?"

"I'll have to ask Cameron."

"Behind every great man there's a woman with guts, and behind every small one a whiner."

Sliding doors shush open, John making a small cough of announcement. Greg's head lolls to the side, blue eyes a surprised question.

"I'll leave you two alone." Chase exits the stage.

John walks up slowly, fingers tapping a photo frame in his hands. "I found this cutout in your office…" He trails off, turning the frame around to reveal a faded yellow newspaper clip entitled 'Blue jays win championship.'

The grainy image taking up most of the article is of a youth athlete holding up a cup while being paraded on his team mates shoulders. A keen eye can make out a prominent forehead and long nose in the form of a block-letter T, and short, dark hair.

Greg takes the image from John, a ghost of a glad smile lightening his features as he thumbs the cool glass.

"Why haven't you ever mentioned this?" John asks from his side, and perhaps for the first time ever there is no trace of accusation in his tone, more like regret.

"It's a sport you never heard of and a lame team – blue jays. We might as well be called cuckoos." Voice oozes to bitterness.

"You were captain of a title-winning team, pulled the tie-breaker." Senior attempts to lift his spirits.

"What was I supposed to say?" Two pairs of blue eyes met. "I scored the winning goal in the student championship, dad." He intones with mock cheer. "Oh, and by the way, practices kept me from the books so I got tossed out of med school."

John's face falls. "You didn't move to Michigan because of the internship." He concludes.

Greg shakes his head. "A year earlier I would have ditched the sport, but the guys…" He sighs. "I never had friends before. Than suddenly I was popular."

"Still…"

"It was supposed to be a surprise. I was Valedictorian of a famous med school, got an internship at the best clinic, _and_ lead of the title-winning team. You were supposed to be left speechless." He smirks. "Instead I got ratted out, expelled, lost the internship, had to start med school all over again. _Work_ to pay for it."

John frowns. "You didn't get a sport scholarship?"

"Meds schools don't have those. You're either a doctor or not."

"No student loans?"

"Didn't feel like being indebted for the rest of my life."

"You could have asked us-"

Greg cuts it off with a sore snigger. "If I wanted conditions I'd have gone to a bank, less strings attached."

"A self made man." John nods approvingly. "What did you do?"

Greg sighs. "I was and orderly." He mutters.

"Why haven't you mentioned it."

"It's a cross between a nurse and a janitor, okay? I cleaned other people's shit and barely had enough money for school, let alone living expenses. Showered in the locker room, sleeping in ER, hospital cafeteria food..." Voice trails off.

"I'm glad you did." The tone is genuine sincerity.

Greg looks at him dumbstruck. "Who are you and what have you done to colonel House?"

John makes a half huff, half-snort. "I'm John. I've retired him."

A tentative acceptance crystallizes in Greg's eyes. "Now what?"

John shrugs. "We start slow. Visits on the Holidays? Aunt Sarah can be our neutral zone."

Greg nods. It takes a minute of awkward silence for John to leave, returning with Blythe only to say their goodbyes.

**…**

House sits on the hospital bed in almost complete civilian attire, buttoning up an oxford shirt. Two hospital issued crutches stand to attention next to him.

Cuddy's entrance is attention grabbing. "Leaving against doctor advice?" She hold up an AMA form with his signature.

"Reye's is done with, blisters are healing, experience memory will come back or it wont, skill memory is intact and jaundice checkups can be done at home." House shrugs on a suit jacket before slipping to the floor and taking the crutches. "I have a doctor in the family, asked him for a second opinion. He told me it's okay." He takes off.

They walk out together. "I've spoken to Chase. He'll take the spot at pediatrics if you re hire Cameron. You still haven't interviewed anyone."

"Okay."

"Foreman wants back also." She calls the elevator for him.

"Figured he might."

"You need a third fellow."

"Why? I've got a female and a minority."

Cuddy glares at him. "Hiring guide lines have nothing to do with it."

"Oh that's right, if forgot a closet homo." He pouts. "Hmm. What if I trade them for a Hispanic lesbian? That'd save you tow salaries." Brows wiggle.

Cuddy shakes her head smiling. "You're impossible."

Pod arrives with a ping and they both step in.

The privacy prompts her curiosity. "Do you remember the charity banquet on Labor Day?"

He shakes his head. "No. What happened? And more importantly, were there fireworks?"

"No." She mumbles slowly, the clash of literal and figurative pyrotechnic a bit uncanny. "You saved me from a sleaze. Just wanted to say 'Thank you'."

"Any time." He nods, eyes grounded like a ten year old with a crush, erasing her doubts of memory surfacing in fragments.

As the doors open they take separate routes to administration and parking lot respectively.

"See you later, House."

"Later Cuddy."

**THE END**

* * *

_**Next **_

**PHYSICIAN HEAL THYSELF  
Baby Blues**

Near death experience, constant pain, solitude, dysfunctional parents... Not House - his youngest patient.


End file.
